


Writ in the Folds

by szarn



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, Missing Scene, Off camera
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 10:38:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3171696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/szarn/pseuds/szarn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of missing scenes told through Jack's point of view.  Going in order, most will be tied to a particular episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a proper beta in this fandom. Please do point out any mistakes or awkward Americanisms. Tags are subject to change in future chapters.

Jack took pity on the housemaid.  He might have done so anyway -- she'd spent the trip to the station in anguish, hands wringing in her lap and lower lip aquiver -- but he'd felt obliged after Miss Fisher had gone and blurted out _that_ word in front of the poor girl.

He didn't really believe Miss Williams capable of murdering her employer, but neither could he rule her out as a suspect until he'd, well, ruled her out.  So he'd sat her down in his office -- the personal decor had a humanizing effect on him which helped put subjects at ease -- and led her through his line of inquiry as gently as he might.

His patience proved worthwhile.  The tears which had threatened never quite materialized.  Where a guilty mind would grow frustrated and snappish at being posed repeated variations of the same questions, Miss Williams was coaxed into recovering her voice.  She recounted with cold contempt the liberties Mr Andrews had taken with the female staff, either too naive or forthright to notice that she merely confirmed for Jack a possible motive.

Also confirmed was the motive of one Miss Alice Hartley, recently dismissed amid _unfortunate_ circumstances.  That name was divulged only under duress.  Miss Williams' worried conscience wouldn't let her touch the tea Collins fetched for her, though she glanced to the cup as if comforted by its mere presence.  Hidden beneath the edge of his desk, where she thought Jack wouldn't notice, her nervous fingers occupied themselves with a creamy white calling card.

No, Miss Williams might not have full faith in her friend's innocence, but she'd damned well stood up for Miss Hartley regardless.  The same could not be said of Lydia Andrews, who tellingly hadn't lifted a finger in defense of either girl.  Jack recalled Mrs Andrews as he'd last seen her: pale and tragic in her grief, overshadowed by the bristling woman at her side.

In contrast, Miss Fisher had reached without hesitation for a scathing defense.  She'd brandished it at Jack with a surety that he'd taken both as a measure of how greatly she valued her own instinct and how little she trusted his.

"May I?" he asked suddenly, gesturing at the card.  He had no real purpose beyond curiosity, having offered up one of his own and received nothing in return.

Nodding, Miss Williams relinquished it to claim the cooling teacup in its stead.

Out of habit, Jack raised the card to his nose and took a whiff.  The fragrance lingering on it was smoky and opulent; even without benefit of the printed name he would have recognized the perfect accompaniment to Miss Fisher's burgundy velvet gown.

In this case, he would admit -- in the privacy of his mind -- that her instinct was not wrong.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Williams." Jack leaned to place the card on his desk within her reach. "You're free to go.  Constable Collins here will drive you home once you've finished with your tea."

"Yes, sir!" Collins beamed at the prospect.

Hesitating a moment, Jack decided, "There is, however, one last thing you might settle for me."

"Yes, inspector?" Miss Williams ventured, reluctant to return his gaze. 

Jack's own instincts had been honed through long exposure to the most devious aspects of human nature.  It was perfectly obvious once he'd grasped what he was looking for.  "She put you up to the napkin, didn't she?" 

Miss Williams' eyes dropped at once, and she gave no request for clarification or even a hint of denial.  After a momentary struggle for comprehension, Collins had the sense to turn equally red in the face.  The embarrassment at having let himself be lured away from his post would soon fade, but hopefully the lesson would stick.  It was no good having an exploitable weak flank when Jack knew he wasn't done crossing wills with the Honorable Phryne Fisher. 

She had a contest on her hands whether she knew it or not. 


	2. Chapter 2

The clock in Jack's office was always at its most reproachful in the small, quiet hours of the morning.  He could imagine the tick-tick of the mechanism growing louder with each squandered minute; but that was probably the effect of a whiskey-induced haze, too weak to obscure the sound yet strong enough to make him obstinate in persisting here when he should have dispatched himself home to bed.

Jack seldom smoked, but tonight he'd helped himself to a pack of cheap gaspers confiscated from one of the station's former overnight "guests".  It was the taste he needed, to drown out the smoke of a different flavor that clung to his clothes and skin.

The telephone rang, startling him near out of his wits even though he'd been waiting for the call.  He answered by rote, listened as the news was repeated for him, and dropped the receiver in the cradle without making reply.  Consulting the damnable clock, he scrawled a note in the thoroughly unofficial report he was never going to file -- or show to anyone, for that matter.

_Blaze contained at 03:55, no casualties confirmed at this time._

If he'd been five minutes slower to respond, there would have been at least four charred bodies for the firemen to find in the rubble -- one of them his.

He lit the next cigarette off the glowing stub of the one before it, the way he'd learned in the war.  Dry matches had been scarce; but more than that, nobody had wanted to be the unlucky third man to light off a match flame and draw a sniper's bullet.

Five minutes.  Dear god, he'd been pointedly dragging his heels.  Jack had broken his own first commandment and _taken for granted_ that the situation was as it appeared on the surface.  He'd taken people for granted.  After all, it wouldn't have been the first time Albert Johnson and that lot of rabble rousers had attempted to divert police attention to one location while they made trouble elsewhere.

What kind of communist did the bidding of a wealthy socialite anyway?

For that matter, what kind of wealthy socialite, within the first week of her return to the city, collected in her ensemble two former wharfies and a murder suspect?

Jack had erred the most in his estimation of Miss Fisher.  He'd been unable to conceive of any need she could have for him that would warrant a response posthaste -- let alone a need that put her in Little Lonsdale at midnight.  It had seemed more likely that she'd wanted _Jack_ in Little Lonsdale for some private purpose of hers, and thought his compliance guaranteed after the gift she'd made of Butcher George, delivered in literal brown paper and string.

(There was a story he would never know the full truth of.)

He'd meant to keep her waiting, impress upon her that a senior detective inspector would not be budged at the snap of her fingers.  Perhaps if her scheme was spoiled in the process, she would approach him in the same fashion as anyone else the next time she desired his special help.

No wonder he'd gaped in surprise when he'd pried open the bath house door and she'd all but tumbled out at his feet in a billow of suffocating steam.

She'd been wrapped in a simple towel, nothing else.  Jack could exquisitely remember the sheen of moisture on her collarbone, the slickness of her hand in his as he'd drawn her upright.  How she'd swayed, lightheaded, and declined the tardy offer of his coat: _No thank you, Inspector.  I'm far too overheated at the moment to bother with propriety._

Then she'd surprised him again by pressing into his arm to confide, _I wouldn't worry much about Madame Breda, but if you hurry you might catch Lydia Andrews before she vanishes into the night.  Her husband's murder is the least of her dirty business._

Jack hated to feel thick-witted.  It was a rare occurrence anymore, but Miss Fisher had done it.  Worse was the way she'd done it, patient though pleased with herself, as if in most competitions she enjoyed holding back just enough for the stragglers to catch her before streaking ahead again.

He refused to make excuses.  Her meddling had beaten his police work to the killer.  What he found unconscionable was that a delay of _ten_ minutes would have made his arrival coincide with the boiler room explosion.  He'd almost had to face an investigation into her death, burdened with the knowledge that it had been within his power to prevent.

Contemplating the item resting on his desk, Jack poured himself another finger of drink and corked the bottle for the night.  Had Miss Fisher been killed, he would have arrived at the same standstill: working up the nerve to process her personal belongings.  Evidence was evidence, he told himself.  Still, he might have maintained her privacy if only she'd stayed to answer his questions, rather than abscond with her rather groggy and very naked companion the instant Jack's back had been turned.

He picked up his pen and noted: _One ladies handbag, black leather, good quality and condition.  Recovered from alley adjacent to former Turkish bath palace._

In truth, there was one very selfish reason Jack was about to upend Miss Fisher's handbag and pick through its contents.  He needed insight into her person if their association was to continue (as he feared it would).  He needed to render her predictable, so that he would never again underestimate her talent for aggravating dangerous criminals or placing herself -- and others -- in harm's way.

The instant Jack emptied the handbag, he saw at once why it had seemed oddly heavy.  He raked one hand through his hair in dismay and reached for his glass with the other.

The next and final item he added to his report was: _One snub-nosed revolver, Smith and Wesson, gold plated with mother of pearl grip, plus five .38 caliber rounds._

Nothing more need be said.


	3. Chapter 3

The balding man behind the desk was polishing his glasses on a handkerchief when Jack was shown in.  "Ah, Inspector."

"Mr Stovall."

"It's been a while.  To what do I owe the pleasure?  Not another ghastly case, I hope."

Jack had wondered how bad Stovall's vision was behind those thick round lenses.  Now he knew, as the squinting man was turned slightly too far, addressing the coat rack two feet to Jack's left.  Motion solved the issue; Stovall's fuzzy gaze latched onto Jack as he approached and sat.  "Yes and no.  You hear about this Merton fellow?"

"The one running a gang of pickpockets?  Illusionist?"

"Hypnotist."

Stovall hooked his glasses back over his ears.  "One of your lot rang up here asking after next of kin.  I'm afraid a number of the girls are alone in the world.  It'll be off to the orphanage with them."

"Yes, that's what- why I'm here," Jack amended, drawing a page that was folded lengthwise from his coat.  "I have a request."

"Only you would apply for a favor in writing."  Stovall took the page with exaggerated gravity and began to read.

There wasn't anything outright improper about the request.  Jack had made certain of that, omitting details concerning how, exactly, young Jane had come to be in Miss Fisher's custody.  And it wasn't as if his requests to Welfare were so infrequent that this could be counted as an especial case.  In fact, over the course of their cooperative back-and-forth, Jack had likely saved up a surplus of Stovall's gratitude.  So why was this particular request, out of them all, the one to make him nervous of rejection?  If it was his own doubts manifesting, he shouldn't let them show.

Stovall's pinched expression and silently moving lips didn't help.  He pressed the crease out of the paper and read on.

Jack, who was long past the habit of fidgeting, rearranged his hands on his knees once or twice.

At last Stovall pronounced, "This is somewhat irregular."

"So is Miss Fisher," Jack said, and immediately wished he hadn't.

"Her suitability is the main concern of this office.  Your thoughts, Inspector?"

Of Phryne Fisher?  Where could Jack begin that wouldn't damn his cause?  This was the woman who stole into crime scenes and consorted with communists; who shot out locks with her unregistered pistol and drove her expensive car far in excess of the speed limit; who ran along rail lines in the dead of night searching for bodies and unwittingly made murderers her houseguests.

In her train compartment, she had practically flaunted her contraband novel at Jack after helping herself to his suspect on the flimsiest of pretenses.

Any grudging appreciation he'd felt, watching her kidnap half his case, had vanished a moment later when he'd found the St Kilda address she'd somehow secreted in his trouser pocket.

She had completed with panache the fool's errand he'd set her on, and taken her victory from him like a compliment.

He'd stood and watched her wring the guilt out of Eunice Henderson, then produce her own personal set of handcuffs for his use when he came up a pair short.

She had made herself maddeningly integral to his investigation.  He would give her this one thing in return, however ill-advised.

"I paid a visit to Miss Fisher's home.  Jane will want for nothing, no expense spared."

"That's all very well-" Stovall began.

"Her heart is in the right place."  Jack surprised himself with the strength of his assurance.  "Further, Miss Fisher has proven herself to be intelligent, resourceful-"   _Meddlesome, cunning._  "-independent, determined-"   _Fatally stubborn._  "-and a fair judge of character."

He didn't mention that the very qualities which might benefit her in managing a former street urchin were the likely result of a similar background.  He'd had the means and cause to pry into her history, but what he'd unearthed there wasn't his to share.

Stovall waved Jack off with some impatience.  "You're not pursuing a conviction in court, Robinson.  I only need to hear that you'll vouch for her."

"Yes," Jack said.

"Then consider it done."

"Thank you."

"Not at all."

Jack made to rise.  "Er, one more thing.  There's no need to send this one through official channels."

Stovall flipped the page face-down and patted it once, his expression holding just on the dignified side of sly.  "Yes, yes, of course.  Could I trouble you to inform Miss Fisher of my decision?"

"As it happens, I _was_ planning to speak with her this evening," Jack lied.  Or rather, it wasn't true until the instant he said it.  "It's no trouble, and I'd be happy to... save you the paperwork."

"That's it exactly."


	4. Chapter 4

The idea seemed to have always been there, lurking in the back of his mind.  It could not, by logic, have predated their acquaintance, so he traced its origin to that same encounter in a cocaine kingpin's bathroom. To be specific, the pique he'd felt watching Collins diligently transcribe her crime scene theories in the notebook beside Jack's own.

Perhaps he was too pragmatic for his own good.  Perhaps he could recall too easily the state of the police force through the war and leading up to the strike: pensions gone, facilities in disrepair, manpower spread thin.  The thought of letting a potentially valuable -- and economical -- resource go to waste nagged at him.

Why shouldn't he use her?  Apart from his obvious misgivings, which... really should have been more difficult to brush aside.

Jack generally disliked cases involving the influential and well-to-do.  He resented every hour lost on staff troubles, missing baubles, and romantic entanglements gone awry; but it was just as much hassle in the end to send a sergeant or lowly constable where the adequacy of police response was judged by rank.  Worse, Jack could collar the guilty party and present a watertight case, and the charges might still be dropped if it meant sparing some prominent individual the inconvenience of having their dirty laundry aired in court.

How he would love to be able to shunt those cases toward the Honorable Phryne Fisher.  She fit the part, moved in the right circles, and was above all disarmingly affable.  People would trust in her light touch and discretion, even if Jack knew better.  (Those formative Collingwood years must have contributed to her robust and unflinching sense of justice -- one which, he was learning, aligned with his own more often than not.)

In all honesty, he envisioned a number of uses for Miss Fisher.  It was his plan to secure her cooperation which had led him to scale the side of a building barehanded in the dark.

Time being a factor, Jack should have taken the stairs.  But when he'd paused by the downpipe, recalling the less than graceful kick of Miss Fisher's heeled feet as she'd breached that upper window, something long-neglected had stirred in his chest.

The Green Mill made the third case now where she'd beaten him to the truth.  He was aware that a man in his position would be expected to avoid comparisons that could prove unflattering, even disgraceful.  His pride should not accept her as a rival, let alone a kindred mind.  Jack, with his typical perversity, wanted something even more from her.  He'd been abreast of his field for so long that he'd failed to notice the signs of his own complacency.  Phryne Fisher would be the measure against which he righted himself.

He began by flexing disused muscles, figurative and otherwise.  The wide duties of his office made it necessary to delegate much of the groundwork to his men; he'd not thought twice to send Collins scurrying up a building.  Now, clambering up the same pipe, Jack was pleased that the task presented no great difficulty, even semi-blind in the dusk.  There was barely a twinge from the old leg.

It was no use _remembering_ that he could do something without having recently put it to the test.  Hooking his knee over the sill and pulling himself through the window gave no sense of accomplishment, but rather reassurance.  He was still years from resting on his laurels behind a desk, and his basic skills had not deteriorated to the point that he would struggle to keep pace with a certain lady detective who made free use of his given name.

The photographic plates were discovered beneath the bedroom floorboards, the second place he looked.  Jack had allowed himself three uninterrupted hours to search Leonard Stevens' apartment, the length of distraction provided by the Firemen and Policemen's Ball.  He'd used only twenty minutes.  The remainder of the evening stretched before him, open with possibilities and dotted with pitfalls.

He could make an appearance at the ball.  It would mark the first since his marriage had become strained, though he always bought a ticket for the cause.

God, no, he didn't dare if there was a chance Miss Fisher would be there.  He might do something terrible like let her goad him into dancing, in the very telling absence of his wife, and beneath the censorious eye of Deputy Commissioner Sanderson.

If she was not attending, he could use the lull to deliver the plates.  Jack wanted the deed done, not for fear that he might change his mind, but because he was curious to see her reaction to the overture.  While he was at it, he might as well gift her the mock booking photographs.  Collins had admitted they'd accidentally been developed with the day's batch.

The picnic basket, however, was part of an ongoing experiment and would not be returned.


	5. Chapter 5

"Robinson!"

Not ten steps.  He hadn't even made it ten steps inside the old exhibit hall.  Jack fought the urge to hunch his shoulders up to his ears as he braced for the blow to come.  It landed a split second later, a friendly left hook to his biceps that was sure to leave a mark.  "O'Shaughnessy," he winced in greeting.

Detective Inspector O'Shaughnessy rocked heel to toe, grinning.  "I've just won a pound thanks to you."

"Is that so?"

"Tell 'im, Reilley."  As usual, O'Shaughnessy towed a resigned young man at a safe distance behind him.  He never kept them long, his baby-faced constables.  The smart ones outpaced him within a year or two and moved on to greener, less physically demonstrative pastures.

(Jack assumed that the ones who stayed on in any lasting capacity must share the inspector's brilliant inability to recognize personal limitations.)

This Reilley wouldn't have stuck out of place in a boys' choir.  His sloe eyes lifted to Jack's with a look of commiseration.  (Six months, tops.)  "It's true, Inspector Robinson.  There was a wager going around as to whether you'd show up tonight, only nobody wanted to take it."

"I did."  O'Shaughnessy clutched Jack to lean in and confide, "I had a peek at the Association log.  That's how I knew you had a ticket."

Jack sidled away before O'Shaughnessy could secure his hold.  "I hate to break it to you Dessie, but I always buy-"

Constable Reilley's mouth dropped open for an instant before he blanked his features.  It was an especially worrying reaction as he seemed to be following over Jack's shoulder the approach of whatever -- or whomever -- had sparked it.

It couldn't be Miss Fisher... could it?  Jack had parted company with her not half an hour before, in his office.  She hadn't been dressed to attend a charity dance, nor had she made any mention of plans to do so.  Then again, she was hardly the type to let trivialities come between herself and a whim.  All at once it felt as if that damned photograph was burning a hole in his pocket.  The one of her making spectacles out of her fingers, the one he'd found so strangely endearing that against all good sense he'd slipped it into his coat rather than return it to the folder with the rest.

What on earth had possessed him to think he might escape the deed unscathed?

"Jack."

Even worse than Miss Fisher, the voice was masculine and unfortunately one he would recognize in his sleep.  Jack schooled his own expression before turning.  "Commissioner."

"It's been a while since I've seen you at one of these things."

Jack could only answer, "Yes."  He knew exactly how long it had been since his last Firemen and Policemen's Ball, but admitting it would only cast greater suspicion on his presence tonight.

George Sanderson took in Jack's appearance, fresh from the station, and altered his battle plan mid stride.  "If you're looking for Rosie, she's not here."   _But you already knew that,_ said his downturned mouth.

Jack would not have risked setting foot in the place had his wife's absence not been guaranteed.  His father-in-law was not a stupid man and could probably pinpoint the start of the Robinsons' moratorium on attending social functions together.  What George didn't know, and what Jack hoped to conceal from him a while longer, was that permanent steps were being taken to rectify the situation.  He cleared his throat.  "I'm... looking for my constable.  Has anyone seen Collins?"

Sanderson said, "I thought you'd begged off for the evening."

"I did.  Something's come up." Jack knew he'd only dug himself in deeper, but was spared from having to explain what that "something" was when the orchestra wound down to a round of applause.  Polite as the noise was, there were still enough people on the dance floor and in the wings to momentarily drown out conversation.  Scanning the crowd a little desperately, he stumbled over a familiar face.  Not Collins, but it would have to do.  "Never mind, I believe I've spotted someone who will know.  If you'll excuse me."

Sanderson might have called after him, but Jack was already hightailing it toward the refreshment tables.

"Harris.  I see they've got you safeguarding the punch bowl?"

The senior sergeant was a decent type.  A bit rough around the edges, with a vocabulary heavy on four letter words, but steady and sensible.  "Da- darned right, sir."  He opened a satchel to show Jack his collection of confiscated flasks. "The nerve of them, trying it as if I weren't standin' right here."

"You'll see that's all destroyed," Jack reminded.

"Sure, sure."

"I'm looking for Collins."

"Then you're in the nick of time."  Harris nudged Jack and pointed into the thick of the dancers.  "I'd say he's in need of urgent intervention."

To Jack's eye Miss Williams had the greater need.  "Good god, how long has that been going on?"

"All night."

"I'll handle it.  Thank you, sergeant."

Jack strode onto the floor just as the orchestra unfurled the opening bars of the next song.  It took a few quick steps dodging unwary couples before he could reach Collins and Miss Williams.  She noticed Jack straight off with a start, while it took a clap on the shoulder to break Collins out of his trance.

"Inspector!"

Miss Williams removed her hand from his and dropped it to her side, where Jack saw her stretch and wiggle the fingers as if attempting to restore circulation.  Her smile, sweet as always, bore cracks of strain.

"Miss Williams," Jack nodded.  "My apologies for the interruption, but I'd like to borrow Collins for a moment."

"Oh, yes, of course."

Jack led them both back through the press of dancers, then deposited Miss Williams at the edge of the floor before dragging Collins a few paces further.

"Sir-"

"Don't worry, I'm not here to spoil your evening.  Though I imagine -- don't look! -- I'm still being watched by Commissioner Sanderson, so maybe try to make it seem like I am."

Collins couldn't help glancing around warily, but at least he didn't turn.  "If you don't need me then why are you here, sir?"

"An impulse I wish I'd left well enough alone," Jack would admit.

"But I thought-"  Collins only ever checked himself so hastily when there was an element of guilt involved.

"Thought what, constable?"

"There may or may not have been a wager, sir.  My opinion may have been sought."

Jack would have once been offended to find himself the target of such speculation.  Nowadays he might care enough to be mildly curious.  Shame Collins couldn't know that.  "And?"

"I may have pointed out how suspicious it is that you're always working on the night of the ball."  Collins dipped his head in apology.  "I may have also mentioned that you know how to dance, so it was decided in the end that you must not enjoy it."

That was an old rumor, started by Jack himself out of necessity, then kept alive by habit and a modicum of truth.  Nothing ruined a formerly pleasurable activity like making it part of an agenda to maintain appearances -- just as nothing highlighted a man's shortcomings like leading his wife onto the dance floor, fitting his hand to her waist, and being unable to recall the last time he'd touched her in private.

A change of subject was urgently needed.  "Speaking of dancing, what were you doing out there to Miss Williams?"

Collins shuffled in place.  "Not... dancing?"

"She's a pretty girl, Collins, not a block of wood or a venomous animal."  That could have been the problem: Collins' face had said infatuation while the rest of him had screamed terror.  "Try to relax, and _hold_ her, but lightly.  She's not about to bite you or run away," Jack was reasonably certain.  "Make sure to offer her rest and refreshments.  She may be too polite to ask.  And for god's sake, go use the gents if you have to."

A breath whooshed out of Collins.  "I do, I really, _really-_ "

"Enough.  Go."

"Thank you, sir!  I won't be a minute, if you'll-"

"Take your time.  I'll entertain Miss Williams in your absence."  Somehow.

She looked none too pleased when she saw Jack returning for her alone. Not surprising given that he'd questioned her as a murder suspect not long ago.  This could be his chance to make amends, for his constable's sake if nothing else.

"Er, Collins has a small- that is, a matter to attend.  It won't take long," Jack promised.  "He's asked me to keep you company in the meantime."

"Oh," Miss Williams said faintly.

"I would offer you something to drink, but he ought to be the one to do that."

She made a small sound which could have meant anything and continued to peer at him.

"We'll be hard to locate if we wander too far, but we could-"  Jack waved her two steps left and out of the path of a laughing, careening couple.  "-retreat to a safer distance.  Or we could join in and finish out the song."

The offer surprised the hell out of him.  To guess by her widened eyes and immediate blush, the feeling was mutual.

Was it too late to pass it off as a joke?  "You're right, terrible idea.  For one, I'm quite rusty, even if I did practice on Collins the evening before last."

"Hugh says you taught him everything he knows."

"See, now, I told _him_ not to tell you that."

"I think we should try that dance, Inspector."  Miss Williams' mouth might have finished in a prim little shape, but she sounded determined, if not to let bygones be bygones, then at the very least to find him no longer intimidating.

Jack had to wonder if she was making the effort for herself and Collins, or if Miss Fisher didn't figure in as well.  Either way, it was only courteous to match her pluck, so he extended his hand.  "Shall we then, Miss?"  It was ridiculous given how many attendees there were and how few of them knew who he was, but it still felt as if he drew every eye in the room with that simple gesture.  He let Miss Williams choose their distance, then finished taking up position.

She lifted her chin.  "Ready when you are."

Nodding to count off the time, Jack shuffled them into the outer eddies of the dance floor.   _There, not so bad._  He was finding it far easier to keep things polite and neutral when he and his partner weren't also needing to feign intimacy.  It also helped that the basic steps were still fresh in his mind, freeing enough of his concentration to attempt small talk on top of minding his feet and avoiding collisions.

"You look very nice this evening.  That's one of the things Collins _was_ supposed to tell you.  I'll get after him if he's forgotten."

"Don't!  He's told me at least ten times already."  A fact which clearly pleased Miss Williams if the exaggerated roll of her eyes was anything to go by.

"He said something about a new dress."  Jack wasn't about the mention the lipstick, a rather ferocious shade of deep red which he was certain he'd seen somewhere before.

She made the skirt swish as Jack led them through a promenade.  "Yes."

"It's-"  Here Jack's faculty for words made him stumble.  There were a dozen superlative compliments he could have called upon had she been his partner for the evening.  The aim, however, was to not exceed propriety or outstrip Collins.  "-very smart."

"Thank you.  I... like your tie."

"Uh, thanks."  He couldn't recall which one he was wearing without sneaking a glance.  "I guess it's appropriate."

"Why?"

"Because-"

"Oh, right.  The dots."  

Jack didn't want to seem as if he was drilling her, especially not after the Andrews affair, but he supposed it was his duty to steer them away from dead ends in both the dance and the conversation.  "What do you think of the venue?"

"It's quite big."  Miss Williams took a moment to scan the peaked ceiling far overhead.  "I don't think I realized how big the last time I was here.  I got to visit the aquarium one year for my birthday."

As a child, Jack had been more excited to see bicycle races on the grounds than performing sea lions.  That seemed too much to share, though, with the companion of a certain lady detective.  "And the music?  Has it been to your taste?"

"It's not what I expected.  When Miss Phryne was showing me-  That is, the music isn't the same at all."

So, there'd been some practice occurring on both sides.  Jack put on a mournful face.  "Go on, you can say it.  Miss Fisher is a better dance instructor than I am."

She considered it, doubtless trying to balance the desire to be truthful with the need for tact.

Jack had no such compunctions.  "How many times has Collins stepped on your feet?"

"He didn't mean to-"

"Aah, but he has."

"Two... fine, three times.  I wouldn't have minded, except the one time he did it he was still apologizing for the time before that and not paying attention to where he was going as a result."

Jack cocked his head.  "I don't think I've ever heard anything more perfectly describe Collins -- but you can't tell him I said that."  Keeping a straight face was a losing battle, though he counted it a significant victory when Miss Williams gave in and laughed along with him.

"I won't!"

He drew her closer for a few steps.  "I'd also appreciate it if we might keep the dancing between us.  I have a reputation as a wallflower to maintain, after all."

Miss Williams matched his conspiratorial tone.  "Don't worry, your secret is safe from Miss Phryne."

Found out so easily, he could only chuckle again.

The song was drawing to a close when he spotted Collins wandering near the edge of the floor, a bewildered and slightly anxious look in his eyes.  It occurred to Jack how he might pull off a grand finale, so he maneuvered himself and Miss Williams on an intercept course.  On the final notes he curled Miss Williams up in his arm, winked at her in warning, then spun her out like a top for Collins to catch.  She followed through with aplomb, spinning on her toes fast enough to make her skirt twirl around her prettily.

Poor Collins had no idea what hit him.

Jack gave them both a formal bow before slipping into the crowd.  He couldn't stay with George Sanderson on the prowl, but at least now he could go home to his empty flat without feeling as though he'd missed out or wasted the evening. He couldn't even regret winning O'Shaughnessy that pound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know for sure that the police association would have helped organize the ball, or where it would have been held. I picked the [Royal Exhibition Building](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_Exhibition_Building) as a likely candidate.


	6. Chapter 6

"It occurs to me that I've left the Hispano at City South," Miss Fisher said, taking Jack's hand and his unspoken offer of assistance in stepping out of the police motor car.

Jack thought that she wouldn't normally accept help.  Certainly, she'd take a polite gesture, a courtesy, but this was something different.  Her fingers clutched his a little harder than they should have, and she let him support a little more of her weight than she might have had nothing been wrong.  It was his second clue.  The first had been her bare and almost solemn gratitude when he'd volunteered to drive her home.

"Miss Williams is headed to the station with Collins to give a statement of the kidnapping," he reminded, not about to take his hand back until she was ready to relinquish it.  "If you'd like, I can arrange for the Hispano and Miss Williams to be returned at the same time."

"Yes, that will work," Miss Fisher said absently as they trudged up the sidewalk and negotiated the gate at 221B The Esplanade.  "You'll need to use the telephone."

He had wondered how he might invite himself inside should she attempt to leave him on the steps.  There was his excuse.  

Trying the knob, Miss Fisher seemed surprised to discover her own front door barred against her.  She produced a key from her handbag and passed that accessory to Jack to hold while she saw to the lock.  She _did_ leave him on the steps, but with the clear expectation that he would follow and shut the door behind him.  Neglecting to shed her driving coat first, she moved at once to the parlor; the clinking of glass issued soon after.

Mr Butler rounded the corner from the dining room.  "Inspector," he greeted.  Then he must have noticed Jack's expression, or the handbag, or possibly the sound of Miss Fisher pouring herself a drink.   _Something's not right,_ he conveyed with the slightest frown and a flick of his eyes, otherwise retaining his usual perfect composure.

No, that wasn't quite it.  More like: _I demand that you tell me what's wrong this very instant._

Jack murmured, "Miss Williams is unharmed.  She's down at the station with Collins."

"That's a relief," Mr Butler said, matching Jack's tone.  "And...?"

"Attempted bank robbery.  I don't have the full story yet."  Hefting the handbag, Jack decided he wasn't above snooping if it meant that he might gain at least one answer without the need for uncomfortable questions.  He reached inside and carefully located Miss Fisher's revolver.  "Ended with two men shot, one bystander -- of the not-so-innocent variety, I suspect -- and one robber." Sure enough, when he released the cylinder and flipped it out to inspect, he found a single spent casing among the live rounds.  Plucking it free, he rolled it in his palm.

Mr Butler took responsibility of both handbag and revolver from Jack with a knowing nod.

Jack spoke up, "I, er, need to use the telephone."

"Of course.  Would you care for some tea while you're here?"

"I think tea would be an excellent idea, thank you."  

Mr Butler departed in the direction of the kitchen, doubtless wanting to rid himself of the weapon before checking on his employer.  Jack hung coat and hat by the door and placed his call.  By the time he was done, Mr Butler had come and gone again, providing silent updates each time: _Not good._

Jack wished he could do a recce before entering the parlor, but Miss Fisher glanced up as soon as he approached the doorway.  She was curled on the chaise, which left the open seats facing her.  Jack had wanted to be able to read her reactions anyway.  He took the closer one, nudging the little table aside so it might feel slightly less like an official questioning.

"The station's had news from the hospital.  Both injured men should recover."

Miss Fisher was turning her empty glass in her hands, eyes there but thoughts focused elsewhere.  "I could have told you that."

He couldn't help remembering his examination of Yourka Rosen's body, and the delicate, formerly-white gloves that had been wadded and pressed into a bullet hole in an attempt to slow the fatal blood loss.  There was the battered lapel pin, too -- the one he'd found amongst her things on the night of the bath house fire.  He'd recognized the insignia from the war, wondered if it was an odd souvenir or if she'd earned the right to wear it.  Now he was certain.  "It wasn't luck, was it?"

She sighed without looking up.  "I'm sure I have no idea what you're alluding to, Inspector.  You should be talking to Hugh."

Jack leaned over and dropped the spent casing in her glass, where it bounced and rang before settling.  "Damned nice shot, square in the shoulder so he couldn't support or fire the Browning.  I paced out the distance, not sure I could have made it."  Especially not on the first try.

Miss Fisher put her glass on the little table, as far away from her as she could reach.  That was the extent of her response.

He tried again.  "I... notice you avoided speaking to the reporters when they were taking witness statements."

"There was no point.  If, by some miracle, they'd guessed the right questions, I only would have had to lie."  She visibly withdrew into herself before turning to Jack.  "When a policeman shoots a bank robber it's heroic."  After a pause she added wryly, "If a woman does it it's sensational."

"The truth often is."  Jack tried not to let her gaze slip away again.  "Will you answer honestly if I can manage to ask the right questions?  I promise that nothing said here today will leave these walls."

"You're welcome to try, but _I_ decide what constitutes the right questions."

Fair enough.  "Is this the first time you've shot someone?"

She rallied with some annoyance, "What if I told you it was?"

"I would say it gets easier, burying any compunctions you might have over pulling the trigger."  Very carefully, Jack reached for her hand; she permitted him to take it without comment, but that was all.  It lay chill and limp in his.  "If it was your first time, you might believe it.  But you don't."

"No," she said.

"Phryne."  That got her attention.  Even he recognized a potency to hearing her name in his voice, one which he wouldn't want to diminish through overuse.

He had her and now he was at a loss for how to proceed.  If she were his subordinate he'd praise her.  Criminals posing a threat to public safety should be taken down by whatever means necessary.  When he'd given Collins that speech he'd been able to frame it in terms of duty and obligation.

Collins did not share Jack's visceral reflex to violence wrought at high-velocity.  He guessed that Phryne did, if not the exact type then a similar revulsion bestowed by the war.  One unlucky step was all that had separated the front lines from the back of an ambulance.

"It doesn't get easier," Jack said. "If anything it gets harder."

Phryne drawled, "The voice of experience.  If you're trying to make me feel better, _Jack-_ "

"No. Only less alone."

Her hand stirred, and she allowed him to press some warmth into it.  "I'll be fine.  But thank you, for-"  She didn't finish, but neither did she break the contact until Mr Butler returned a few minutes later with their tea.


End file.
